live I shall not be without uneasiness as to what he may attempt

through indirect influence. This man has gained Dorothea's ear:
he has fascinated her attention; he has evidently tried to impress

her mind with the notion that he has claims beyond anything I have done
for him. If I die--and he is waiting here on the watch for that--

he will persuade her to marry him. That would be calamity for
her and success for him. SHE would not think it calamity:

he would make her believe anything; she has a tendency to
immoderate attachment which she inwardly" target="_blank" title="ad.内向；独自地">inwardly reproaches me for not

responding to, and already her mind is occupied with his fortunes.
He thinks of an easy conquest and of entering into my nest.

That I will hinder! Such a marriage would be fatal to Dorothea.
Has he ever persisted in anything except from contradiction?

In knowledge he has always tried to be showy at small cost.
In religion he could be, as long as it suited him, the facile echo of

Dorothea's vagaries. When was sciolism ever dissociated from laxity?
I utterly distrust his morals, and it is my duty to hinder to the

utmost the fulfilment of his designs."
The arrangements made by Mr. Casaubon on his marriage left strong

measures open to him, but in ruminating on them his mind inevitably
dwelt so much on the probabilities of his own life that the longing

to get the nearest possible calculation had at last overcome his
proud reticence, and had determined him to ask Lydgate's opinion

as to the nature of his illness.
He had mentioned to Dorothea that Lydgate was coming by appointment

at half-past three, and in answer to her anxious question, whether he
had felt ill, replied,--"No, I merely wish to have his opinion

concerning some habitual symptoms. You need not see him, my dear.
I shall give orders that he may be sent to me in the Yew-tree Walk,

where I shall be taking my usual exercise."
When Lydgate entered the Yew-tree Walk he saw Mr. Casaubon slowly

receding with his hands behind him according to his habit,
and his head bent forward. It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves

from the lofty limes were falling silently across the sombre
evergreens, while the lights and shadows slept side by side:

there was no sound but the cawing of the rooks, which to the
accustomed ear is a lullaby, or that last solemnlullaby, a dirge.

Lydgate, conscious of an energetic frame in its prime, felt some
compassion when the figure which he was likely soon to overtake

turned round, and in advancing towards him showed more markedly
than ever the signs of premature age--the student's bent shoulders,

the emaciated limbs, and the melancholy lines of the mouth.
"Poor fellow," he thought, "some men with his years are like lions;

one can tell nothing of their age except that they are full grown."
"Mr. Lydgate," said Mr. Casaubon, with his invariably po lite air,

"I am exceedingly obliged to you for your punctuality. We will,
if you please, carry on our conversation in walking to and fro."

"I hope your wish to see me is not due to the return
of unpleasant symptoms," said Lydgate, filling up a pause.

"Not immediately--no. In order to account for that wish I must mention--
what it were otherwiseneedless to refer to--that my life,

on all collateral accounts insignificant, derives a possible
importance from the incompleteness of labors which have extended

through all its best years. In short, I have long had on hand
a work which I would fain leave behind me in such a state, at least,

that it might be committed to the press by--others. Were I assured
that this is the utmost I can reasonably expect, that assurance

would be a useful circumscription of my attempts, and a guide
in both the positive and negativedetermination of my course."

Here Mr. Casaubon paused, removed one hand from his back and thrust
it between the buttons of his single-breasted coat. To a mind

largely instructed in the human destiny hardly anything could be
more interesting than the inwardconflict implied in his formal

measured address, delivered with the usual sing-song and motion
of the head. Nay, are there many situations more sublimely tragic

than the struggle of the soul with the demand to renounce a work
which has been all the significance of its life--a significance

which is to vanish as the waters which come and go where no man has
need of them? But there was nothing to strike others as sublime

about Mr. Casaubon, and Lydgate, who had some contempt at hand for
futile scholarship, felt a little amusement mingling with his pity.

He was at present too ill acquainted with disaster to enter into
the pathos of a lot where everything is below the level of tragedy

except the passionate egoism of the sufferer.
"You refer to the possible hindrances from want of health?" he said,

wishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon's purpose, which seemed to be
clogged by some hesitation.

"I do. You have not implied to me that the symptoms which--
I am bound to testify--you watched with scrupulous care,

were those of a fatal disease. But were it so, Mr. Lydgate,
I should desire to know the truth without reservation, and I

appeal to you for an exact statement of your conclusions:
I request it as a friendly service. If you can tell me that my

life is not threatened by anything else than ordinary casualties,
I shall rejoice, on grounds which I have already indicated.

If not, knowledge of the truth is even more important to me."
"Then I can no longer hesitate as to my course," said Lydgate;

"but the first thing I must impress on you is that my conclusions
are doubly uncertain--uncertain not only because of my fallibility,

but because diseases of the heart are eminently difficult to found
predictions on. In any ease, one can hardly increase appreciably

the tremendousuncertainty of life."
Mr. Casaubon winced perceptibly, but bowed.

"I believe that you are suffering from what is called fatty
degeneration of the heart, a disease which was first divined

and explored by Laennec, the man who gave us the stethoscope,
not so very many years ago. A good deal of experience--a more

lengthened observation--is wanting on the subject. But after
what you have said, it is my duty to tell you that death from this

disease is often sudden. At the same time, no such result can
be predicted. Your condition may be consistent with a tolerably

comfortable life for another fifteen years, or even more. I could
add no information to this beyond anatomical or medical details,

which would leave expectation at precisely the same point."
Lydgate's instinct was fine enough to tell him that plain speech,

quite free from ostentatious caution, would be felt by Mr. Casaubon
as a tribute of respect.

"I thank you, Mr. Lydgate," said Mr. Casaubon, after a moment's pause.
"One thing more I have still to ask: did you communicate what you

have now told me to Mrs. Casaubon?"
"Partly--I mean, as to the possible issues." Lydgate was going

to explain why he had told Dorothea, but Mr. Casaubon, with an
unmistakable desire to end the conversation, waved his hand slightly,

and said again, "I thank you," proceeding to remark on the rare
beauty of the day.

Lydgate, certain that his patient wished to be alone, soon left him;
and the black figure with hands behind and head bent forward

continued to pace the walk where the dark yew-trees gave him
a mute companionship in melancholy, and the little shadows of bird

or leaf that fleeted across the isles of sunlight, stole along
in silence as in the presence of a sorrow. Here was a man who now

for the first time found himself looking into the eyes of death--
who was passing through one of those rare moments of experience

when we feel the truth of a commonplace, which is as different from
what we call knowing it, as the vision of waters upon the earth is

different from the delirious vision of the water which cannot be had
to cool the burning tongue. When the commonplace "We must all die"

transforms itself suddenly into the acute consciousness "I must die--
and soon," then death grapples us, and his fingers are cruel;

afterwards, he may come to fold us in his arms as our mother did,
and our last moment of dim earthly discerning may be like the first.

To Mr. Casaubon now, it was as if he suddenly found himself on
the dark river-brink and heard the plash of the oncoming oar,

not discerning the forms, but expecting the summons. In such an
hour the mind does not change its lifelong bias, but carries it

onward in imagination to the other side of death, gazing backward--
perhaps with the divine calm of beneficence, perhaps with the petty